


Reflections On The Afterlife

by SebPitch



Category: Ghosts (TV 2019)
Genre: (he's not really in it but it's mentioned), Autism Spectrum, Autistic Captain, Autistic Character, Autistic Pat, Character Study, Gen, Neurodiversity, Sensory Overload, all of the Button House residents are neurodiverse it is fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-17
Updated: 2020-03-17
Packaged: 2021-02-28 17:22:02
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23070886
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SebPitch/pseuds/SebPitch
Summary: For as much as he had thought about the subject while alive, he hadn't expected the positives to be very many.Being a ghost is just be gay, do crime (break known laws of science).
Comments: 7
Kudos: 80





	Reflections On The Afterlife

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't have any kind of outline for this I just wanted to write the Captain being autistic and so, here we are. I could honestly work on this a lot more but, I'm tired! And not entirely displeased with how it turned out. I hope you enjoy!

There were both positive and negative aspects to being a ghost, the Captain found. Once you got used to it, wrapped your head around the whole thing, it wasn't all that horrible. There were certain aspects you could even come to appreciate, given time, one thing you were guaranteed to have an abundance of. Although it may not be what he had imagined for his own afterlife (or, indeed, anyone's), the experience wasn't an entirely awful one.

(Now, he didn't want to be misunderstood. If offered the chance to 'move on,' as it were, he wouldn't refuse outright in favour of continuing this particular existence. That opportunity wasn't one he was likely to be met with anytime soon, however, so there was little reason in entertaining the thought.)

That was his opinion on the matter. He couldn't speak for everyone in Button House. He hadn't much idea for how the others felt about the situation, really. It was hardly something he could bring up in casual conversation - "oh, I've been meaning to ask, how do you feel about your entire existence?" - and he didn't make it a habit to have more serious discussions when he could help it (read: avoided them like the plague). No, he had only his own experiences and observations to draw from when coming to these conclusions.

For as much as he had thought about the subject while alive, he hadn't expected the positives to be very many; ghosts, specters and the like generally came up in the horror genre, or as an otherwise creepy or morbid reference. After three quarters of a century to contemplate it, he figured that those accounts of hauntings must be based solely on the guilty conscience and over-active imagination of the living, hardly on actual fact or testament of said haunter. Additionally, it may be that a tale of a reasonably well-adjusted and contented spirit, spending eternity people-watching and quietly contemplating life's great mysteries, is not half as interesting to the general public as a story of, say, a perpetually ticked-off spirit, fixated on making everyone else's life as miserable as their death, through petty disturbances and unrealistic feats of corporealism.

The afterlife really didn't have to be so dashed unpleasant as all that. It had the potential to be significantly less stressful than regular life. Especially if you considered the state of things when the Captain had died.

(There had been some relief in watching others pick up the pieces after the war had ended and knowing he was free from the responsibility, but, well... it wasn't much consolation.)

Everything was much quieter now, for one thing.

(Not at first, though. There had still been quite a lot of people gathered in the house, and the commotion had lasted some time. He hadn't even been aware other ghosts were residing there with him for the first few days.)

Since dying, the Captain had been able to go as long as a year (the 1950s had been rough on him) without exchanging more than the briefest pleasantries with another being. Even longer without any attempts at polite conversation made at him that he'd rather jump out of a window to escape from than endure. Self-induced isolation wasn't the sort of thing he'd go in for now, at least of any lasting length of time, but he appreciated the option. He had come to enjoy the others' company, though he'd never admit it to them, and their conversation was much more enjoyable without the usual social pressures oppressing him in their ineffability.

The ghosts of Button House, thankfully, seemed to all agree on that front: why should they be holding each other to arbitrary social codes when they had all come from such different societies? None of them chose to be there and none of them could leave, correcting each other on irrelevant social faux pas would get tedious fairly quick. This came as a great relief to the Captain, and a few of the others, who had never been particularly gifted in understanding their own society's etiquette, let alone somebody else's. Even Fanny obliged to let things go for the most part.

(The Captain didn't know for certain, but he guessed that this was the result of past failures. Alison, a newcomer, was therefore not immune to Lady Button's tutelage.)

Far more odd behavior was forgiven than anyone in the Captain's time (bar a certain few he held close to his heart) would ever allow. For example, Patrick regularly echoed what people said right back to them, or to himself, and no one blinked. He tended to produce a lot of sounds that would be considered strange in the Captain's and, he was sure, Patrick's own time. However much they got on each other's nerves, their levels of tolerance for such veins of behaviour were admirably high.

That wasn't to say that they didn't butt heads at times. Arguments often arose. Though together in their unusual circumstances, they were all far different people at the end of the day. Some of them handled conflict better than others, and some, naming no names, seemed to enjoy bringing it on. (Out of boredom, presumably. It had lessened with recent arrivals and interesting new circumstances). Not usually with any actual malice, granted, but antagonising nonetheless. This brought in to play what the Captain considered more negative aspects to his afterlife.

A situation such as thus had the potential to become overwhelming: a ghost, say, Robin, to use a random example, deciding to join forces with, oh, Julian, perhaps, to play a trick on a more easily irritated resident, like Lady Button, if that wasn't too difficult a scenario to imagine. Now, Lady Button, when annoyed, found the best way to resolve the issue was to scream at it, regardless of what innocent bystanders might be forced to suffer her grating chidings and shrill voice alongside the offenders. This was, for obvious reasons, not ideal for said innocent bystanders, especially ones who had it in their nature to foolishly attempt conflict resolution at every opportunity.

The Captain had been reflecting on all this, his feelings on the afterlife he'd been granted, from underneath his bed, where he had retreated not nearly soon enough after the conflict had started. Well, reflections on the afterlife was where his mind was when it wasn't otherwise occupied.

He had counted the boards keeping the mattress in place several times, and tracked the swirling patterns in the wood until they blurred. Two of the boards directly above his head were substantially different shades of oak, and he wondered if the makers of the bed thought no one would ever notice that fact. He wondered who had slept in it before him, and if they had ever noticed.

(Not that he slept, most nights. He couldn't really sleep anyway, so much as meditate quietly in the dark. He assumed the other ghosts were the same, but had never inquired; he didn't ask personal questions. His adjustment after dying had been- difficult, to say the least, and so what would have been his best opportunity to gather such information was mostly squandered.)

Whatever train of thought he managed to hold onto was also interrupted by himself, quietly reciting his (it did feel like his) Modern Major General song. He alternated between mumbling under his breath and singing through the words silently in his head, start to finish, near flawlessly. This ritual settled him, put his bones at ease, to use a description he was fond of. It was a habit he'd picked up near the start of the war, and he was always satisfied to know that he still remembered all of the words perfectly.

(Or, he thought he did. It was distressing to think that he might have misremembered some part, so he didn't.)

The Captain could note several more tell-tale signs that he was upset, although he couldn't quite identify those feelings within himself (this was, of course, a sign on its own). He made a list.

1\. He was lying on the complete wrong side of his bed. And under it too. He was pressed against the wall, as far from the light pushing it's way into the room as he could go. This was not normal behaviour.

2\. His thoughts, while not yet completely scattered, arrived grudgingly, almost like wading through a fog. Certain moments were clearer than others, and he held onto his song as an anchor, an unobscured constant.

3\. He was unable to identify his feelings for the most part, instead only aware of the facts of the situation. It was with that he could guess at his state, but he did not have the spare energy to examine any internal emotions.

4\. He was very aware of every sound he could hear (including the still raised voices downstairs), and the brightness pushing in at the edges of the bed. Thinking about it he felt the pull of agitation in his chest. He threw an arm over his eyes to shut it out.

5\. He had to deliberately untense his body every few minutes (with some difficulty). It was starting to get sore but he didn't think he could move, despite the cramp in his legs.

However, his heartbeat and breathing (yes, he still had these somehow) were normal, although they had elevated before when the argument first broke out. He wasn't even sure what had happened.

His memory of the past fifteen minutes was muddy, but he believed it involved items moved to places they shouldn't be and a question of when and where Julian should be allowed to use his powers (for example, not in others' rooms, or without good reason). Normally, the Captain would've jumped at the chance to join in the excitement and practice diplomacy, but recently, well, there had been just too much excitement. And he had had enough, evidently. When the voices were raised in the living room and nearby ghosts got involved, added their words to the blasted cacophony, the Captain had panicked (or something like it). This didn't happen to him often, mind. He knew to be level headed, it was necessary for a leader in order to control his troops. And he had attempted to, initially, reintroduce order to the group. But, the noises surrounding him got harsher on his ears, the commotion swarming his senses, and in the end he had fled.

(Scrambled out of the room, really. He was glad he couldn't bump into things anymore, else he might have made a scene. That made its way onto the list of positive aspects to being undead. Clumsiness could be forgotten.)

He wasn't sure if he had thrown out an excuse in his escape. Doubtful. It wasn't likely anyone noticed him leave, really, let alone his distress. He hoped to god nobody had noticed. It was very unlikely he would be able to come up with an excuse, or even communicate at all, if someone came to find him. This he knew from experience.

(He was hit suddenly with the ridiculousness of his position. He felt rather foolish on the floor, acting like a mad person, but it couldn't be helped.)

While alive, he had dealt with similar situations many times. It was hardly new to him. The argument hadn't been the only factor to set it off, he could see now this had been oncoming for days. Unpleasant though it was, he knew what he could do to put himself back into working order. The problem, however, was that most of those methods only worked for living beings. Clearly, an issue.

The Captain remembered when he had discovered that one could still be afflicted with migraines after death. Some party had been held in Button House, and none of the guests cared much about the level of noise they made (incredibly inconsiderate bunch). It had all been too... _too_.

(Again, he had no idea if the other ghosts dealt with such ailments or if it was unique to him, but the latter seemed so ironic that he was inclined to believe it to be true.)

Painkillers were impossible, for obvious reasons. He couldn't even grab a glass of water. Wrapping himself in a blanket and enjoying the comfort of a bed was out of the question because 1. party held inside, 2. unable to lift blanket and 3. eternal insomnia. The only thing he could do was sit by the lake for a few hours and wait for it to pass (the headache and the party).

This sort of thing was similar, in that he now found himself rather helpless to his body's (spirit's) reaction to stress.

He would wait it out.

Perhaps in a different position.

After a few moments of still contemplation, he stood up suddenly (the only actions he could take abrupt and robotic) and relocated himself to the wardrobe. This allowed much more room to shift ever-aching joints. Thankfully, he could sit and lean against the wall in there without phasing through, an ability he never understood entirely.

With his head resting against solid wood, he watched dust dance in the rays of light breaking through the crack in the door, and considered the science of his current physiology. Did he have physiology? No, that was for living beings, he thought. Was he even a physical being? As far as he was aware his feet touched the floor. He could make an occasional floorboard creak. He didn't phase through walls unless he wanted to, despite lacking Julian's unique abilities. That was evidence he was present in the physical world. Every action had an equal but opposite reaction, the force exerted on him by the ground under him was in turn exerted by him on the ground. Essentially, he had an effect on it. If he could rest his weight (which he apparently had; see floorboard creaking) on something, not only did that imply that he had mass, but that he was not entirely exempt from the laws of physics. Was he? He could break some laws, sure, but not all. He couldn't float, move things or flicker lights. How on earth did anyone manage that?

Science, while interesting, was by no means his strongest area. His schooling on the subject was unbelievably out of date. Trying to figure out the ghost laws of physics in terms of outdated scientific knowledge was incredibly useless, he realised.

At this point he realised that the noise from downstairs had abated somewhat. Peace, a truce, agreement of some kind had clearly been reached. The voices could be heard from the Captain's room, no longer excessively raised. It was still louder than comfortable, but an improvement nonetheless. A small relief.

A desperate craving for a cup of tea and biscuits washed over him. It was something he had used to return himself to normal in instances such as these, before. He missed drinking. That was something surely no ghost could do. A great shame. 'But we soldier on, what?' he thought to himself.

He closed his eyes and imagined the feel of a hot mug in his hands.

(Touching a hot surface was something he had to source from far back memories, although he could sense temperatures right enough in this state.)

A calm started to roll through him, and he conjured other pleasant sense memories, savouring each one greatly. Gulping down a chilled drink of water. Thumbing through pages of a well loved book. Lying enveloped in freshly cleaned and starched bedclothes. A light breeze reaching him from an open window. The warmth of sunshine directly on exposed skin. His fingers running through hair, over a stubbled cheek. Deep pressure of arms wrapped tight around him.

(That one hurt particularly hard. In a moment he realised breathing had been an entirely optional function the whole time.)

A longing filled his chest, for these sensations, these experiences he could never have again. He had had to mourn so much of his life, these were comparatively miniscule losses. And yet they pained him just the same.

Curious thing, that. Loss. Grief. It was something you never stopped carrying with you.

The Captain was incredibly tired. His thoughts were coming less and less in words, and more in concepts, outlines, images and sensations. He let this happen, let himself lose the language that wasn't necessary right then.

He waited for energy to come back to him, and in the mean time, he thought about everything.

**Author's Note:**

> *makes vague references to the Captain's boyfriend at the end of my fics for that Pain Fix*
> 
> Headcanon that the Captain loved to read P. G. Wodehouse when he was alive because why not :p
> 
> If you have any opinions on this, or ideas about neurodivergent Button House residents, I'd love to hear them! I’m @casgender on tumblr <3
> 
> Thank you for reading :)


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